My grandmother passed away Sunday night. She was 99.

In so many ways, despite the last few months that have been horrible for her, she was very, very blessed. She got to die in her own home, not in a hospital. She was with her children when she died. Up until almost the very end, she was present and conscious-- she didn't suffer from Alzheimer's or senility. With the exception of one month spent in a rehabilitation center, she spent her last years in her home.

But of course, even when you know it's coming, you're never fully prepared for death.

My grandmother had a remarkable life; she was a remarkable woman. She was born less than fifty years after the end of the Civil War, and lived to see the first African-American president elected and sworn into office. She was from the Deep South; where graciousness and gentility were highly valued. She was extremely well-educated for a woman of her time, and was, as the French say, very cultivated, or cultured. She loved books, she loved opera, she loved to travel, she loved all things European. She was an amazing gardener, making her little corner of the desert bright with all sorts of flowers, year-round. She was a tried-and-true Democrat and followed politics avidly up to the end.

I have such wonderful memories of her. I remember playing at her house, with the Barbie dolls that belonged to my mother and aunts. She would take me through her garden and tell me the names of all the flowers. She would serve me lemonade and cookies in china teacups and saucers. She would put me down to rest on her soft bed that smelled of lavender and 4711.

I remember Easter lunches of deviled eggs and fried chicken on her patio, always bright with flowers. I remember Christmas dinners with her at our house. She was the one who gave me beautiful dresses when I was a small girl, and books to read when I grew up. She told me about her family, their history. She was always a loving presence in my life. Anytime we lose someone like that, we are the poorer. No wonder we grieve, even if we are relieved that their suffering is over.

Of course these few words in no way do justice to the complexity of my grandmother. She was a wonderful woman, but not a perfect one. Her life's path was filled with sadness and difficulty, too. But the greatest gift that she gave her children, and her grandchildren, was her deep love of beauty, nature and culture. She gave us the idea that things worth doing are worth doing well, with grace and beauty. She taught us that as hard as our hardest moments are, there is some consolation to be found around us, that ugliness does not have to triumph.

She will be very missed. But she lives on through us, in the small details of our lives, and the big ones. In the vase of flowers lovingly arranged on the table. In the brightly polished silver. In the paintings we hang on our walls, in our gardens, in our hearts.

As I was preparing her obituary, I was seeking desperately for some small kernel of a poem or quote to sum up how we feel about her loss. I searched and searched, but nothing felt right. As I sat in front of the computer, one line floated through my head. "....A thing of beauty is a joy forever." I didn't know who wrote it, or what the rest of the quote was, so I looked it up. And I found that small kernel that summed up how Grammie felt about life, which was so much more fitting than writing about how *we* feel about her death. Here's the quote, from John Keats' poem Endymion:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

This is the gift she gave us, it is eternal. And we are eternally grateful to her.